Page 1 of Fake-Off with Fate
CHAPTER 1
ASHLYN
I love my job.I love my job. I love my job.Unfortunately, the repetition of my contentment mantra doesn’t always work. Take now, for instance. I’m standing in Callista Crenshaw’s palatial closet about to sort her shoes according to designer instead of style, which is not how I do things. Ever.
In my professional (and highly sought after) opinion, shoes are sorted by occasion, then heel height, and finally color. That is, if my client owns the necessary two hundred-plus pairs needed to make this system successful. Being that I’m a closet organizer for the rich and famous, ninety-nine percent of them do. The other one percent are hyper-vigilant hippy-types worried about leaving too large of a carbon footprint on Mother Earth.Theyhire me to hang their organic, hemp, handstitched-by-Ecuadorian-nuns baggy apparel (so it doesn’t constrict their auras) on wooden hangers carved by the indigenous people of some remote jungle.
Callista, however, is a reality television star so she is not spending her days worried about anything other than her public image and possibly making my life miserable. I’m starting to think the latter has become her main motivation for getting out ofbed in the morning.
“I want the Louboutin first,” she tells me with her signature wide-eyed stare that makes me think she would make a great serial killer. You know, unsuspecting, but devious. “Then the Nikes, then the Chanel, and finally the Louis Vuitton.”
I glance up from the pile of footwear mounded around me with what I’m sure is a look of total horror on my face. “You want the Nikes sandwiched between the Louboutin and Chanel?”On what planet does that make sense?
Her head bobs up and down nearly imperceptibly while her facial features remain immobile. I’m guessing the Botox shots she claims to get for migraines are keeping her from animating anything above her shoulders. God knows, I’ve never witnessed an actual expression cross her face.
Now that my whole protocol has hit the fan—which is seriously messing with my latent OCD tendencies—I might as well see if she wants me to put all the left shoes together before lining up the right ones across the aisle. No, I can’t bring myself to go quite that far. “Anything else?” I ask.
“I want you to put a light pair in between two dark pairs so they stand out more.”There goes using a photo of this closet in my portfolio.I’m tempted to ask her to not tell anyone I had anything to do with her project, but she’s not the first crazy person I’ve worked for, and she won’t be the last. I cite the movie producer who had me organize his extensive collection of dog collars by the number of studs they had. He wore the heavily embellished ones on his “special dates.”
My phone rings before I can beat my head against the Macassar Ebony planking. It’s my mother, but I’m not going to tell Callista that. Instead, I mutter, “These Kardashians are going to be the end of me.”
Even though it’s physiologically impossible for Callista to show any emotion, I know she’s excited because she moves backwards and tries to block the doorway with her double zero frame. Except for her greatly enhanced chest, I’m pretty sure she still wears toddler sizes.
“Is it Kim?” she demands. “Kendall? Kylie?”
I answer the call and declare, “Kris, how are you?” Then I wink to my client and mouth the words, “I need to take this in private.” I easily crawl under her emaciated arm and make my way through the bedroom. From there I walk into the bathroom and lock the door. Once I’m safely ensconced, I ask, “What’s up?”
“Are you pretending I’m Kris Jenner again?” my mother demands disapprovingly. She isn’t a fan of the kind of people who hire me. But let’s face it, normal folks can generally figure out how to organize their own clothes.
“It’s important my customers know they aren’t the only bougie people I work for,” I tell her while further enclosing myself in the toilet closet. Now there’s no way Callista can overhear anything. Even if her ear is pressed up against the outer door—which I’m sure it is.
“Your father is making me crazy,” my mom growls.
“What now?” My parents have had an ongoing battle for the last two years, the likes of which have made me wonder if they might scrap their nearly thirty-five years together and go their separate ways.
“Dad and I were eating at the Glass Onion last night and he took four phone calls during our meal.Four.”It’s clear she feels this number is closer to a thousand than say, three.
Trying to diffuse her anger, I tell her, “Dad’s busy.”
“Your father is the mayor of the most darling town in the world. His whole job is cutting ribbons for the few new stores that open.”
“There’s more to being mayor of Maple Falls than that, Mom.” I’m not exactly sure that’s true, but there must besomething.
“He approved a new stop light in town,” she grumbles. “Now that the Ice Breakers are part of the NHL, traffic is getting worse.”
“You see, thereismore to it.”Although barely.
“Ashlyn,” my mom says in that warning tone of hers that she used to use right before grounding me. “I’m fifty-eight years old and your father has never put me first.” Before I can respond, she adds, “Instead of taking early retirement like he promised, he decided to run for mayor. I’m sick of playing second fiddle to, well, everyone.”
It sounds like she’s getting ready to make a move. “You aren’t going to leave him, are you?”
“I just might.”
“Mom …” Even though I’ve been worried about my parents’ marriage, I truly thought things would work themselves out.
“I’m fifty-eight years old,” she repeats. “And I look darn good. I’m still young enough to find a partner who thinks I’m worth spending time with.”
My hands suddenly feel sweaty, which is a sign that real panic is setting in. “Please give Dad another shot,” I beg. “I’m going to get married and have kids some day and I don’t want to have to split holidays between my in-lawsandyou and dad. You’d hardly see your grandkids that way.” I know I’m playing dirty pool but so be it. Desperate times and all …
